Deep within the folds of the Grove—where even light dared not trespass without softening—lay a basin of earth so still it seemed untouched by story. It was called the Hollow of Names Not Given.
No sign marked its entrance. No path led directly to it.
And yet, some found their way.
Not those who sought it.
But those who had, somewhere in their life, been asked: What are you called?
And found they could not answer. Not truly. Not wholly.
The Hollow did not echo. Sound entered, but never returned. As if even breath bowed here, reverent to the absences.
Within this basin grew no trees, only stones—each one faintly warm to the touch, as if it remembered hands that had once longed to claim a name and failed. Or refused.
To sit among these stones was not to discover oneself, but to feel, for the first time, the truth of one's unknowing.
Some wept, grieving titles they had carried too long.
